Brotherly Possessions
by Tuppence
Summary: John's missing and Dean turns up in Palo Alto to ask Sam to help him search for their dad. And then he gets a call. And that call changes everything. Maybe it changes things just enough...


**Disclaimer****:** Don't own Supernatural, even if dreams are wishes my heart makes.

**Author's Note****: **Ok. So I love AU stories and here's another one from me. Please do tell me what you think of it. This one's a slow starter, but it goes wildly away from there.

**Blurb****:** John's missing and Dean turns up in Palo Alto to ask Sam to help him search for their dad. And then he gets a call. And that call changes everything. Maybe it changes things just enough...

* * *

Brotherly Possessions

I

Dean was pissed. Dean was pissed and tired and panicked and a whole bunch of other emotions he didn't want to think about. Because his dad was either missing or dead or... Fuck, he so didn't want to think about this. Or he'd abandoned Dean. Like Sam had, years earlier; which was _exactly _why he _shouldn't_ be driving towards said abandoning brother, the way he was right now.

It was turning dark, which meant that Dean had pretty much driven for twenty-four straight hours because it had been dark when he'd left. It also meant that he hadn't eaten for more than twenty-four hours, being too nauseous from panic and all those other emotions he wouldn't name. Which was why when he arrived at Sammy's – _no, wait, Sam's_ – his head was hurting, spinning a little too much and his stomach pretty much despised him as much as he despised life right now. _Great_.

He wasn't thinking. Or maybe he was just thinking about how hungry he was and how much his head hurt and how much he hated life. Or maybe he was just trying to walk in a straight line without passing out (because dudes don't faint. At all. Unless you're called Sammy. But he wasn't _Sammy_ anymore, he was frickin' Sam) or maybe he was just trying desperately hard to not throw up, because he was just a little bit too damn sure that that was bile he had swallowed back down his throat. Gross. Anyway, whatever the reason, somehow his mind managed to work out that no, he wouldn't like to meet the blonde bitch or whatever his brother had chosen over his family. Rejection, from family, was always hard to swallow. Rejection and then being told that someone else was really family sucked all that much more. So maybe he'll just break in, make enough noise to raise even his brother's lack of hunter instincts and then talk to him. Tell him dad was missing. Dead, hurt, gone, escaped, whatever. Preferably not dead. Or in deadly danger.

And now his hand was shaking a little, as he pulled out a used credit card and some hair clips to pick the lock. He'll break into the house, grab something to drink, make some noise, wake his brother up, grab his brother and go hunting down whatever had his father. Good plan, sound plan, solid plan. Yup, one of the best he'd come up with in a while.

Except that the stupid door wasn't fucking _opening_. What the hell, man? Why did the universe hate him so much right now? Why couldn't one thing go right?

And oh, look, something going right. A window...damn small window but it'll do. And...with a twist, a little turn to the left, no that didn't work. Turn to the right, push it a little bit further in, jiggle it around a little and hey presto, the window was open. He was like the Michael Schumacher of picking locks – faster, smoother, cooler and damn hotter than any other participant in this particular sport. And sure, he played dirty once in a while too. Time to squeeze through the window, a damn tight fit, and he lay there on the floor, staring at the ceiling inside the apartment dazedly.

He was in. He was totally counting this as a win, considering how much the forces were combining against him right now. And he was back on his feet too. He was counting that as a win because it was too tempting to just lay there and sleep and sleep and sleep until the world stopped hating him so much.

Maybe it already had because what was that in the fridge? Well, if it wasn't his favourite brand of beer. If his stomach hadn't been dancing a particularly violent form of the rumba, he might have considered such good luck suspicious or remembered that Sammy always seemed to hate this brand but instead, his hand shot into the fridge and grabbed a beer because _dear god_ that was exactly what he needed right now. Empty stomach or not.

And wasn't it just his luck that before he could even open the damn bottle to take a sip, a fist was flying towards him, which he only managed to dodge because he saw the reflection of the movement against a pane of glass. And sure, his arms and legs were moving a little slower than usual, his head was throbbing like a bitch and his stomach most definitely did not like all this movement, but he could damn well take Sammy on. And once he had Sammy pinned on the floor, he told him so. Until the situation was reversed. He'd clearly spoken too soon. Oops.

There was no "Hey there, how've you been?" or any "What's been happening?" between them. And soon enough, things had gone downhill. Like they'd ever been anywhere close to uphill anyway. But Sam was hissing at him in hushed voices, accusations being thrown around, irrational suspicions being spat out. Like Dean has nothing better to do than to rope Sam back into hunting. (Ok, there may have been a grain of truth in that. But that was one grain in a shit load of hay. Or whey. Or something.) But this time, Dean was totally justified in coming over. _Dad was missing_. And not in the 'few days too late' kind of missing. Or the 'hunt gone bad and he's drunk in a bar' kind of missing. The kind of missing that was missing for a couple of months with no signs, no texts, nothing to say that he was ok. The kind that had Dean jittery, both eyes on the news for anything that could lead to his dad and that had already made him as emo as Sam on a bad day.

Like today. Sam's eyes were all squinty, filled with suspicion, his hushed voice vindictive and ready to hit any and every weakness Dean had below the belt. And Dean could just see how it was all going to go. Sooner or later, one of them would make a noise loud enough to wake the blonde, who'd come down. And the kind of pissed off state Dean was bound to be in after self-righteous Sam was through with him, he'd do anything to piss Sam right off, like hitting on his '_family_'. And that would piss Sam off like anything. _Not_ dependent on his broad's reaction. Well, not completely dependent. Maybe Sam would be a _little_ more ticked off if she liked it. Either way, it would be evens as to whether Sam came with him or not. And if he did come, Sam would be a sulky twat, full of the teen angst that had used to give Dean such headaches when they were younger.

And even as he visualised the final possible outcomes, he couldn't stop his mouth from saying whatever the hell it wanted to, responding to every little jab and prod that Sam's words provided. It was going straight to hell until the notes of _Back in Black_ came on, which changed everything.

They stared at each other, an automatic armistice. Before Sam's eyes, he saw the instantaneous change in Dean, the mulish chin receded, the lines in his brow changed from irritated to puzzled. He was reminded of a time when he could've interpreted every little change in Dean's face, traced it to the shades of emotions. Sometimes he forgot how fascinating his older brother could be and he withdrew from him without realising. It wasn't a reminder he wanted when that same brother broke into his house in the middle of the night. He still listened to the conversation in the now silent kitchen, as Dean accepted the call on his phone.

"Hello?"

"Dean Winchester?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"John Winchester's son, Dean Winchester?" And just like that, Dean stood up straighter, alert, ignoring and pushing away the exhaustion and emotional mess for now.


End file.
